The coastal pickets closed the gap behind us the moment the last of the four cleared the barrier.
I heard the carts being dragged back into place, the spikes being reset. The sound was heavy and final, a door closing on the chaos outside. Inside the western pocket the air smelled of salt, iron, and the sharp tension of wolves who had been holding contested ground for days without relief. Makeshift barricades of overturned carts and spiked timber lined the inner streets. Coastal fighters in sea-grey and plateau wolves in darker iron moved with the tired efficiency of people who had already decided they would die here if the lines broke. The permanent bond fed me every detail twice. The height of the barricades from my eyes and from Darius's lower angle. The exact pull of his reopened side
